


i solemnly swear (that i am up to no good)

by jumpfall



Category: Psych, Suits (TV), White Collar
Genre: Casefic (Almost), Friendship, Gen, Gratuitous Deathly Hallows references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpfall/pseuds/jumpfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn Spencer, Neal Caffrey, and Mike Ross meet at a midnight premiere. New York may never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i solemnly swear (that i am up to no good)

**Author's Note:**

> A response to a prompt on suitsmeme asking for a Psych/Suits/White Collar crossover. 
> 
> Originally posted 2011/08/07 over on livejournal.

Seven eighths of the way through a case ("You said be specific, Lassie." "That was not what I meant.") Shawn shows up with a gleam in his eye and Gus' credit card in his hand.

"How do you feel about New York?"

Gus reflexively checks his jacket pocket, but the damage has already been done. Shawn whistles innocently as he returns Gus' wallet to his desk and then rocks back and forth on his heels, waiting expectantly.

"We still have a case to finish. And give me my credit card back." Gus swipes it back, frowning like he can make a list of its recent charges appear if he just focuses hard enough.

"Dude, the younger brother did it. I told you that yesterday."

"Yeah, but you based that on the fact that he doesn't like Star Trek."

(Arnold says _'Spock from that dumb Trek show?'_ and Shawn says _'he did it.'_ While Gus defends the honour of a classic sci-fi show, Shawn observes a bank statement on the desk. The routing numbers match those of the shell corporation. Better yet, the account PIN is scribbled on a post-it tucked just underneath.)

"Uhm – yeah. The Kirk test hasn't failed me yet."

"You know that's ri – wait, have you told Lassiter yet?"

"Well, I haven’t _not_ told him."

Gus runs that through his internal Shawn filter, adjusting for the facts that: 1) Shawn has never understood how to use (not that one should use, Gus prides himself on his excellent grammar) double negatives properly; 2) Lassiter has been shutting Shawn out of cases completely since round three with one of Santa Barbara's most notorious serial killing partnerships; 3) Shawn has been off his game since Yin. He won the game, but lost the war. Gus' near-poisoning and Juliet's near-bludgeoning and Lassiter's near-concern have dampened the theatricality of the fake psychic's 'visions' recently.

"If you don't call him, I will. What's in New York?"

"I'm glad you asked!" Shawn lights up at the mention of his latest plan. "The midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2, as attended by Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint."

"That's been sold out for weeks."

"So?"

As unpredictable as Shawn is, there's no way he'll be able to get them tickets. Gus waves him off, going back to work. He doesn't know why he still bothers with his second job at West Coast Pharmaceuticals (or why _that_ is what he considers his second job, rather than running a fake-but-nobody-knows-it psychic detective agency with his best friend). He guesses it's just something to do when Shawn doesn't have him running around playing football player or daredevil or firefighter (his personal favourite.)

Gus' first mistake is thinking the topic ends there.

-

When eleven o'clock comes and goes without word, Neal starts to worry; what if this is the one task Mozzie isn't going to be able to pull off? A simple adjusting of his tie turns into drumming his fingers on the desk as quarter after passes. His phone doesn't ring until 11:34, by which point Neal has already assumed the worst.

"You didn't get them."

"Oh, please. Ye of little faith. They will be delivered, as promised," Moz says, hanging up. Three burner phones ago, Neal knows he installed an app to hang up all calls after a predetermined length of time to make tracing difficult; he wouldn't be surprised Moz has a laundry list of things he changes about the phone before using it.

He doesn't whoop (as Diana would do) or fist pump the air (as Jones would do) or shake with excitement, just a little (as he wants to do, he can't believe this is actually happening), expression smoothing out into a charming smile as he considers just how successful this plan has been.

"Something to share?"

Neal looks up to meet Peter's eyes. His friend looks halfway between stern and amused. At first, he had thought managing to pull both emotions off at once without looking torn between the two was a particularly Peter trait; since he's grown close with Elizabeth, he knows better. Something about the Burke house leads to warm hearts and sharp minds and an innate ability to manage them both.

"That was Moz," Neal says. "He's managed to pick up four tickets to the Harry Potter red carpet event and midnight premiere. Would you like to come?"

If he were talking to anyone other than Neal Caffrey, that response might throw Peter for a loop; by now, very little about the former (on the good days, he hopes; on the bad, he recants) con artist does, who has a smile and a plan for almost any situation.

"One: are the tickets forged?" In case the answer is yes, he doesn't ask whether or not Neal forged them; trying to change Neal's ways requires a curious strategy of overseeing his actions while maintaining plausible deniability.

"One hundred percent legitimate."

"Two: I'll have to ask Elizabeth."

"Moz already called her. She's on board," Neal says.

"Neal." Peter's expression shifts from faintly bewildered that he is the last to know of this plan, passing by excited for a split-second of a moment before making a safe landing on the look of fond suspicion Neal knows so well.

"What?" Neal asks innocently.

-

The sun is still pulling back the covers from the horizon and dragging itself into the sky when Mike makes it into the office that morning, a fruit explosion muffin in one hand (Mike had been content with his stalwart chocolate chip, but then he had breakfast with Rachel last week and she has since pushed him into a new muffin bracket) and a folder in the other. He's getting better at the timing in the mornings.

There's only one other associate on the floor when he makes it to his desk, bracing his muffin in his mouth while he removes his shoulder bag. It isn't until he moves to set it down that he notices the pair of tickets sitting innocently on top of his desk, tucked just underneath the keyboard.

"Uhm," is the eloquent response, spoken through a mouthful of muffin.

When Harvey gets in and demands a sitrep, Mike holds his tongue through the summary of his findings (with a brief detour into _'aren't I awesome?'_ which Harvey indulges him in), before pulling the tickets out of his inside pocket with raised eyebrows and just the hint of a smile. "What are these?"

Harvey is just moving to say, "I don't know," when Jessica sweeps into the office and effortlessly takes control of the conversation.

"A little thank you for your work on the Bannerman case," she nods in Mike's direction. "I believe you're a fan?" The inflection at the end marks it as a question, but the dumbfounded expression on Mike's face suggests it is rhetorical. She has obviously done her research.

"Harvey, remember that Yankee game? You waited for over an hour for a foul ball to come in our direction, and then when it finally did, _I_ was the one that caught it. You know, I think it's important to spend time with one's mentor outside of the firm. It makes for a good bonding experience."

Mike jumps, eyes going wide with surprise. "So you're coming, Harvey? _Awesome_." His face breaks out in a full-fledged grin, and he looks ready to say more when he remembers just who is in the room, tamping it down. "See you then!"

There's a bounce in Mike's step when he makes his exit, spinning around the open door to give a discreet two thumbs-up behind Jessica's back before he heads back to his desk.

"What did you just get me into? Harvey asks frankly, unimpressed.

"I hope you enjoy the stylings of young wizards."

"This is payback for Louis, isn't it?"

"Now, would I do something like that?"

"Yes."

"Of course I would. Have a good time at the movie, Harvey."

-

The press of the crowd is almost suffocating, made somewhat bearable by the shared thrill of fannish glee that ripples throughout with each new appearance.

Gus pulls off suave admirably up until the cast starts arriving on the red carpet, at which point he loses it all over Shawn and the surrounding area, posturing so often that it would be funny if Shawn hadn't gone to pieces five minutes earlier at the arrival of Maggie Smith.

"We're not coming this far without getting an autograph," Shawn decides. Gus is a little delayed on the uptake; it isn't until he registers Shawn's tone of _'I have a plan, get the bail money ready'_ that he whips around, by which point Shawn is already moving back through the crowd.

-

Neal is just putting the finishing touches on the second backstage pass when his phone buzzes with a text from Peter to say they're five minutes out. "Moz, I need the --." He gestures impatiently with one hand at the table of implements.

"—got it. Make sure to check the --."

"Yeah, yeah," Neal grumbles, holding the forged pass bearing the name _Neal Caffrey_ up to the light to inspect his work. "The ink's not quite dry, but it will only show under flourescents."

-

"I realize the high and mighty Harvey Specter might think himself above such a lowly movie as Harry Potter," Mike begins reasonably. "But can you humour me for tonight?"

Mike has dressed up a little for the occasion, although the effect of the silk tie is somewhat dampened by the lightning bolt doodled in black Sharpie on his forehead. The top button of Harvey's shirt is unbuttoned. They're meeting somewhere in the middle.

"Let's finish this the way we started," Harvey says, enjoying the way Mike's jaw drops and he flops about open-mouthed for a response.

"You're telling me – you – _oh my God_."

"Let's go before you come up with another clever idea to get us killed; or worse, disbarred."

-

"Hi. I'm Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner, Windy McAuliffe…"

-

"Neal Caffrey. We have VIP passes."

-

"Mike Ross. I work for Pearson Hardman; they requested a lawyer on tap tonight to – er, hammer out the details regarding the copyright of the photos taken on the red carpet tonight."

-

Gus starts in on Shawn the moment the door of the impromptu holding cell slams shut behind the security guard. "This is much, much worse than the time you landed us in Disney jail, Shawn," he says. "If I miss the midnight premiere because of you…" He tries to keep his voice down, but it's a small room; the only other people in the room are a pair in the corner, whose attention he attracts. The taller of the two is twirling a fedora absentmindedly in one hand.

"Dude, I recognize that guy," Shawn whispers in his ear. "From like a most wanted thing or something."

Gus freezes instantly, crossing one knee over the over nervously. After everything Shawn has put him through these past few years, it's going to end in the holding cell of a movie premiere with two criminals? He hasn't even gotten to see the battle of Hogwarts yet!

Shawn, of course, isn't fazed; he walks right over and introduces himself to them. "Hey, you're Neal Caffrey, right?"

The man smiles charmingly, but Gus watches him tense as he prepares for action. "Who wants to know?" the little guy beside him pipes up, inserting himself between Shawn and Neal.

"I'm Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner, Burton Guster," he introduces them, because _of course_ the only time Shawn uses Gus' real name is when he is introducing them to criminals. "So, you're known for daring escapes. We need a breakout plan. I will never forgive Gus if his plan keeps me from the midnight premiere."

Gus squawks angrily in the background, but Shawn ignores him for the moment; he can remember the wanted description on the news. Caffrey's a con artist and a forger, who eluded capture for many years. Distinctly non-violent.

Neal's smile turns genuine as he appraises Shawn in a new light, and he takes the handshake offered. "Well—," he begins. This is the point where the door opens again, and a fifth person joins their party.

" _Alright_ already," the younger man grumbles as the door closes again. He looks halfway between a puppy and a businessman, adjusting his well-tailored suit jacket to smooth out the wrinkles without paying a moment's attention to his hair, which sticks out in all directions.

"Hi there," Shawn greets him. "We're breaking out. Want to help?"

-

As it turns out, the new guy's name is Mike Ross, and he's a lawyer for one of New York's most prestigious firms. Neal and Shawn wrap him up immediately, folding him into the plan while Gus tries to figure out how he's going to explain this on the check-in call Lassiter is absolutely not making ("It's for Juliet. She's…undercover. In a location without cell phone access. If you tell Spencer, I'll kill you.")

The plan goes like this:

Shawn is going to attract the guard's attention, because Shawn always attracts the guard's attention. When they come over, Mike is going to start citing sections of New York's legal code regarding the treatment of detainees to get Shawn out the door – _basic bodily needs must be met_ , he's going to emphasize; the guards can figure it out from there. With Shawn as a distraction and Mike as his backup, Neal's going to rig the lock on the door so they can slip out once Shawn returns.

They're just finishing hammering out the details of the plan when the door opens.

"I'm assuming that's Peter Burke," Mike asks Neal, pointing to the disapproving FBI agent standing in the doorway.

"Which would make him Harvey Specter," Neal returns. Mike cranes his head to see past the broad-shouldered agent, and sure enough, Harvey is standing behind him, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in a demand for an explanation.

"I'll take him," Harvey nods his head at Mike, citing that the only crime Mike has committed is that of well-intentioned excitement carried to an extreme of abject stupidity. Peter takes custody of Neal and Moz.

With three out of their little group of five detainees poised to see freedom, Shawn and Gus exchange despondent looks.

"Peter," Neal says pleadingly.

"Harvey," Mike says pointedly.

The two unspoken requests garner twin looks of disbelief, but neither Mike nor Neal relents, and in the end, Harvey and Peter exchange a shared look of commiseration and return to argue for Shawn and Gus' release.

-

This, of course, turns into introducing everyone to Elizabeth, turns into sitting together during the film, turns into a really early group breakfast.

At first, Harvey doesn't think much of it when Elizabeth asks what everyone's favourite part of the movie is – standard small talk – but then he sees both the responses it garners and the way she uses them to fold new insights into her view of the people around her, and he reconsiders.

Neal responds first with, "The Prince's tale."

"Tragic love story?" Peter asks, and Harvey would think it a joke were it not for the way Neal's group folds in around him protectively. There's a story there, of that he is sure.

"Tale of redemption," he responds instead. More interesting than the subtext underlying his explanation is the way the two men on either side of him respond to it; Peter bumps arms with him whereas Moz bristles. Harvey is used to cataloguing weaknesses, so he takes note of the interestingly decisive rift present.

Mike doesn't tend towards dull people – although he has a habit of finding troublesome ones – and both Shawn and Neal (and their respective groups) certainly qualify. Harvey leaves Mike to his own devices for five minutes, and he comes back with an FBI agent, his former art thief of a partner, and two detectives from the West Coast. To be fair, _Harvey's_ weakness has always been interesting people. Case in point: Mike speaks next, chiming in with, "Neville. I'm a sucker for the unexpected hero," which, okay, Harvey thought they'd already have that conversation about _subtlety_ , because the parallels there are almost painfully obvious.

"Tonks and Lupin," Shawn says last. It prompts a tangent on the saddest death, which turns into Gus having an allergy attack about Fred on Shawn's shoulder, which turns into a heated debate between Moz and Mike about whether the Weasley Twins or the Marauders are the more admirable pranksters.

"The Marauder's Map," Moz says with an air of superiority, tinged with a hint of disdain that this is even up for debate. "Do you know what I could _do_ with a map like that?"

Just when it looks like Shawn is going to get away without explaining his reasoning, Mike and Neal gang up on him. "It's just sweet," Shawn says at last. "Lupin finally grew up enough to find love and settle down."

This is the point where Harvey realizes Mike has found two kindred spirits: a child at heart in Shawn, and ambition for a better life in Neal. The weekend before Shawn and Gus return to Santa Barbara is either going to be sent soaring to night heights or crashing down in flames. Either way, it is sure to be spectacular.

-

The cab doesn't drop Shawn and Gus off outside their hotel until just over two hours later, by which point Shawn is mainly composed of Red Bull, pixie sticks, and life lessons learned from the Cartoon Network. He flops down on the queen bed closest the door face-first, still fully-clothed.

"I think Mike has a memory like mine," he mumbles into his pillow.

Gus' best tactic for dealing with Shawn when he's in one of these moods is to give him the silent treatment until he looks ready to have an adult conversation, because Shawn responds to being ignored about as well as a small animal reacts to coffee. Gus' patience has run its course by the time he's changed into his pajamas and is lying on his side facing Shawn's bed. He chucks a pillow at Shawn's head, and Shawn rolls over.

"When we were trading numbers just before we split, he knew mine before I had to tell him, because he'd seen me give it to Neal. It's something I'd do."

"Are you okay with that?" Shawn doesn't normally talk about his memory. It's one of the few things in their friendship they've never really discussed, along with just where Shawn and Henry stand at any given moment, so Gus doesn't know if he's ever met anyone with similar abilities.

"No," Shawn says after a minute. "He's making way more money off his than we are off mine. We've gotta get him to share his secret."

Gus wouldn't mind a few more funds here and there – it's expensive enough maintaining a beachfront office, made more difficult when Shawn shows up every other week with things like a roomba (office mascot), a clapper (office morale), and a building kit for a professional-grade tap dance floor (legitimate business expense, Gus writes that down under) – but he enjoys the satisfaction he gets from solving cases and making a difference in people's lives. The fine officers of the SBPD are among his friends; Buzz and Juliet and even Lass--.

Lassiter, who he was supposed to call after the movie. Oh, shit. He thumbs the lock on his phone, wincing at the number of unread text messages in his inbox. The last of the nine reads, _'I'm coming out there'_ , sent at 4:31 AM, EST.

Well, that should make tomorrow's planned outing with Mike and Neal interesting.

-

Mike floats in a cocoon of cotton, feeling faintly detached from anything concrete but warm and comfortable. He would be content to hover in the grey area between dreams and consciousness were it not for an incessant buzzing in his ears. He swats at the invisible fly for a minute until his fingers close around the edges of a smooth, vibrating phone.

"What?" he mumbles, blearily rubbing the sleet out of his eyes. Self-preservation has kicked in enough for him to register the ringtone as the one assigned to 'contacts – other', which means it isn't anyone from work.

The alarm clock on the side table reads 9:06. It's Friday, which should mean he's late for work, but Jessica has already had the insight to give him the day off post-premiere. The voice on the other end of the line sounds vaguely familiar, but it isn't until he hears the bemused, "Good morning to you too," that he recognizes it as Neal Caffrey.

"It's _single digits_ ," he says, because he feels like this is a fact that deserves to be acknowledged.

"I have coffee, and it's French roast." Which, okay, Mike doesn't consider himself a coffee expert by any means – if it's hot and infused with caffeine, he can drink it – but he understands the difference between the sludge his pitiful coffee machine churns out and a premium roast.

"Also, I'm standing outside your apartment."

He makes a very compelling argument.

-

"If we can hit the Metropolitan and MoMA before lunch--."

"—we don't need both of those."

Neal fixes him with a look of disbelief. "What would you replace it with? Statue of Liberty?"

"We could do Coney Island," Mike argues.

"Van Gogh!"

"Cotton candy!"

One thing's for sure – Shawn and Gus aren't going to know what hit them.

-

The day starts off well ("Why are you looking at me like that, Peter? It's true!"); they hit a small snag ("No, I won't define 'small', Harvey.") when Gus is enlisted to pick up Lassiter at the airport, bringing their party of four down to three, but their plan for the day is still a go.

Peter has generously given Neal the day off-radius as a reward for his good work recently, with the provision that Neal check in every two hours. They make it through the Metropolitan (because Neal argues that forgoing New York's museums entirely is a crime, and he is currently somewhat affiliated with law enforcement) and Central Park with half an hour on the clock to Neal's next check-in, which, of course, is the point where all hell breaks loose.

They've just ordered lunch when they hear the screams start. Shawn and Neal are out of the booth before Mike can ask if they want to check it out – career habit – so he indulges his curiosity, following them out of the restaurant and down the street, where a crowd is quickly forming.

Mike expects to find someone _dealing_ with whatever situation has arisen when he finally makes it to the center; instead, there's just Neal trying to comfort the distraught young woman, Shawn scanning the scene, and a whole lot of spectators. _This is ridiculous_ , he thinks, stepping up to the plate. "What happened?" he asks quietly, squeezing the woman's hand.

"I was meeting with my attorney…he just took the money and ran."

As it turns out, that is exactly the kind of case that might interest an attorney at law, a consultant for the FBI's White Collar crime division, and a psychic detective.

-

"This is a bad idea," Mike whispers, peeking around the corner to keep an eye on the goons toting guns. Based on the methodical search pattern they've been using and their pace, they won't sweep this area again for another ten minutes.

"This is a wonderful idea," Shawn whispers back, clapping him on the back. Mike makes a surprisingly good lookout. Here Shawn had thought he and Neal would have to instruct the young lawyer in the ways of deception, but as it turns out, Mike has a few tricks up his sleeve as well. Well, it shouldn't be that much of a surprise, considering the huge secret he's keeping.

("You're not a psychic," Mike says, because he can recognize when someone is using the tactics that are second nature to him; an eidetic memory does not a psychic make.

"You're not a lawyer," Shawn says, because he has access to Google and time on his hands.

"So…carry on?"

"After you.")

"Neal, hurry up."

That doesn't get a response, but he hadn't really been expecting one. Neal has one ear pressed to the safe, listening intently, and his opposite hand feeling for the movement of the tumblers. Shawn drags Mike away from the door and over to the desk, where the contract their suspect drew up with their victim is sitting innocently. "You speak Latin, right? It's all you."

"Latin?" Mike mouths to himself, but he flips through the document anyways, picking out the clauses they can use to their advantage.

Both Mike and Shawn look up at the small click as the last tumbler falls into place and Neal successfully opens the safe, retrieving their client's envelope with a wry grin.

"I need one more minute," Mike whispers, gesturing to the documents. Shawn returns to his general snooping around the room, paying particular attention to the porcelain unicorn collection in the upper-right corner of the wall-to-wall bookcase. Wait…wall-to-wall?

"Neal, you cased this place, right?"

"What do you see?" Neal asks curiously, moving to survey the bookcase himself.

"There's an alcove in the room beside this one," Shawn notes, because maybe he's not quite as good at navigation as he thinks he is and they'd ended up in there at first. Mike and Neal are never entrusting him with the map again. "So why isn't there one here?"

"Done!" Mike says, moving to join them. He's half-risen from the chair, one gloved hand ("You two would make horrible thieves," Neal tells them as he passes them out) braced on the desk when they hear the distinctive sound of footsteps at the end of the hall. They freeze as one, adrenaline steadying their nerves.

"Find it," Mike hisses, crossing the room with a chair in hand. As Shawn and Neal move deft, searching hands over the panelling, he quietly closes the door and tucks the chair underneath the doorknob to prevent movement.

They see the moment when Shawn finds something, when the low undercurrent of _'Gus is going to kill me and your Peter is going to arrest him and he's a nice guy, the best, he won't do well in prison'_ falters and his eyes narrow in concentration. He reaches out with one hand, ghosting it over the top of a little inuksuk knickknack, tracing the lines of its figure before he tilts it back.

A false panel in the bookcase slides open, revealing a hidden staircase leading down.

The door to the room begins to open.

The decision-making process consists of very little analysis. Staying in the room leads to getting shot. Heading dowstairs might also lead to getting shot, but it could prolong the process a little. They slip through the narrow opening in the panelling one-by-one, Shawn bringing up the rear. Mike and Neal hover two steps down as Shawn searches out the corresponding button on this side to close the panel. It slides shut just as they hear the crash of goons breaking through Mike's door jam.

For a moment, they barely breathe. They can hear the slow, deliberate steps of people searching the room, and it is too risky to move. What if the stairs creak? Staying still is their best chance at staying hidden.

Just when they think they're in the clear – surely if the searchers knew about this exit, they'd have checked it already – a phone rings. ' _Why dance around to the same damn song_ ,' breaks the silence, and Shawn fumbles for the iPhone in his pocket.

The short tones of Mike's BlackBerry and Neal's Android aren't far to follow, the three ringtones overlapping as their owners exchange looks of horror.

-

"They're not picking up," Peter says wearily, hanging up. Harvey and the newly arrived Detective Lassiter of the SBPD do the same. "Alright, I need their numbers – Diana, let's set up a trace on both Mike Ross and Shawn Spencer's phones, see if they match up with Neal's tracker."

She nods, looking just as comfortable with her mobile setup in Harvey's office at Pearson Hardman as she does in the offices of the FBI. The tracing program turns up the same location; when they overlay it with Neal's tracking data, the three of them look to be in exactly the same place.

"I don't suppose Shawn and Mike are the type to get caught up and not answer their phones?"

"If Spencer can't find trouble, he creates it," Lassiter says grimly.

Harvey doesn't say anything, circling the table to peer over Diana's shoulder at the computer screen. "Donna," he yells out to the hallway. When that doesn't get a response, he looks up to see her blocking entrance to what looks to be Moz, from last night.

"Yeah, how about _no_ ," he hears her say, and feels amusement bubble up despite the uncertainty of the situation.

"You can let him in," he says with a grin. She stands her ground for a minute longer just to make a point before standing aside to let him pass. She follows him in, a small smile on her face that is nothing short of predatory as she comes up just feet short of Harvey, arms crossed in a demand for an explanation. He shifts to grant her access to the screen, letting her draw all the necessary conclusions on her own.

"Mike?" she asks quietly. "I always thought when the FBI paid a visit, it'd be for you," she says, but there's no bite to it.

"Where did he find you?" Moz asks finally. "And could you be persuaded to come work for me instead?"

Donna and Harvey exchange bemused looks. The true story is that he didn't find her, she found him, but they only share it with a select few. It's better to keep an air of mystery about the relationship – it gives Donna endlessly more amusement in the long run.

"Better than you have tried and failed. Now tell me what's going on with Mike."

-

"Hi," Shawn says, waving at the three burly guys peering through the newly-created hole in the panelling in roughly the shape of a fist. "Bye." He stumbles back against Neal, who steadies him as they skitter down the staircase, stable footing the last of their worries. Mike tumbles more than he runs, long limbs tangling as they hit the ground of the next floor and fumble with a similar mechanism to gain entrance into a conference room.

"The secret passage was a lot cooler when it was our secret," Shawn argues, chancing a glance back at the three men hacking their way through the panelling.

Mike's phone buzzes again insistently, like a fly flitting around his ear. "Harvey," he answers with a whisper. "Now is not a good time."

"Then why'd you pick up the phone?" comes the reply.

"Because it's you!" Mike argues.

Neal and Shawn exchange amused looks in the background as they try the door leading out of this room and find it locked. "Mike." They're still on the second floor, so breaking a window is out of the question. " _Mike_." There might be another secret passage, but Mike doesn't think they have time to check all the walls.

"MIKE," Harvey yells. It's the first time Harvey's ever raised his voice to him. He usually prefers subtler messages of communicating his disapproval.

"Yeah?"

"What's going on there?"

"We're, uhm, trapped," Mike says. He looks over to see that Shawn has picked up a priceless antique chair from the set of eight clustered around a long, ornate table. With a nod at Neal, Shawn levels it at the door and takes off running with a war cry. "Gotta go."

"Hang up --."

-

"—and you're fired." Harvey growls into his phone, to no avail. Mike is – was, damn that kid – on speaker, so there's no point repeating what little information they gained.

"Detective Lassiter, you're up," Peter says, taking a corner at speed on two wheels. He had been ready to go the moment the trace had come back. When he operates under the theory that Neal has a mission to send him into an early grave, he gets proven right 75% of the time. His partner isn't the only one that can play the odds.

He hadn't wanted to bring the civilians along, but Harvey had argued his way into the back seat and although customs has left Lassiter bereft of a firearm, he does this for a living. Diana's on his tail, leaving Jones to keep Guster and Moz at the firm. He knows from experience that Moz would try and interfere in their operation, and he has it on good authority from Lassiter that Gus is prone to the same misguided heroics when it is his friend at risk.

"Sweet justice, Spencer," Lassiter grits out, grinding his teeth so hard that Peter half expects to see a piece chip off.

-

"Lassie!" Shawn says cheerfully, bracing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he finishes climbing through the hole, looking back to make sure Neal and Mike are clear too. "I don't have a long distance plan, so talk fast. I don't want one of those $11,000 bills from Verizon. How are you enjoying New York?"

"How am I – you – listen up, Spencer. You are with Ross and Caffrey right now, correct?"

"They say hi," Shawn parries back, glancing back down the hall as Neal goes to one knee in front of the door at the end, a set of lock picks braced in his teeth. Everything else on the floor is locked down tight and there's no visible staircase, but Neal seems to have a plan.

"Are you in any danger?"

"Define 'danger.'"

"Are you injured, about to become injured, or likely to become injured in the near future."

"Yes," Shawn says promptly, just as the door swings open gracefully in the face of Neal's concentrated efforts. "Gotta go."

-

"Hands in the air, or we shoot." They hear growled, and turn as one.

The slight whisper is so soft that it's easy to write it off as imagined. " _After all this time?_ " It's probably Neal, as he was the one with the plan, but it's hard to tell much of anything at that volume. If he was working with any two other partners, their plan might have been sunk before its maiden voyage, but they aren't. They met over Harry Potter, and bonded over their unique minds.

' _Always_ ', Snape had said, but the word isn't the key; it's what the three of them deal in, but they tried that at the door and it failed miserably, leading to the breaking in that has them in hot water now. It's Snape, who made his exit by --.

Well, it's a good thing they've never been afraid of heights.

"Behind you!" Shawn yells at the goons. They whirl to check over their shoulder, and Mike grabs hold of one arm on either side of him and pulls, releasing his grip to protect his head from shards of glass as they fall back through the window. The most terrifying moment of the jump isn't working up the nerve to do it, it's the seconds of free fall spent thinking, _"I fucked up."_

"Roll!" Neal orders just as their feet clear the window, trying to judge their trajectory to the canopy below. It's not his first trip out of a high-level window, although it's one he hadn't been expecting to make today.

Shawn means to scream on the way down, but his heart lodges somewhere in the vicinity of his throat and sets up shop there, beating hard like it can stage a breakout and escape the peril.

They hit the canopy at the same time and for a moment keep on falling. The fabric stretches, dissipating the force of impact over a larger distance and breaking their fall before bouncing them off once more. They fly off in separate directions, the ground below coming up fast. Bits of gravel from the pavement dig into exposed skin as they land, the breath knocked out of them.

Mike lies there for a long moment, a framework of skin and bone holding him together while adrenaline handles the rest, receding with the ebb and flow of his breathing. He rolls over when his arms feel capable of supporting more than their own weight to find Harvey there.

"If you _ever_ do anything that stupid again --."

"—jumped out a damn window," Lassiter snarks at Shawn.

"You promised me you wouldn't do this again," Peter says, aggrieved. Lassiter and Harvey look up, surprised. They had pulled up just in time to see their trio's spectacular swan dive, and apparently this isn't Peter's first time. Poor bastard.

"We solved the case," Neal offers, moving to get up. Peter shoves him back down, running him through a concussion check and testing his range of movement before acquiescing to let him up.

"Case?" Harvey asks.

"I don't even want to know," Peter sighs.

-

LaGuardia's terminal three is a hub of activity as always, passengers rushing every which way with tickets in one hand and bags in the other. They watch the flow of traffic from a walkway two floors up, leaning on the railing as they say their goodbyes.

"We'll have to do this again sometime," Neal says with his customary smile, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit and fedora adorned appropriately.

"Maybe next time we'll be able to finish our tour of New York," Mike offers, looking hopeful.

Gus and Lassiter think it's almost frightening the way the trio exchange identical looks of amusement. In unison, they chorus, "Mischief managed."


End file.
